


rip you apart and leave you shattered.

by beckhams



Series: football. — ideas. [2]
Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-09
Updated: 2020-05-09
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:08:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24093364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beckhams/pseuds/beckhams
Summary: you want to be drained, have all the hatred flow out and be peaceful but then he smiles and you feel more being added to the pool of hatred.but his pool is deeper and you aren't afraid to swim.
Relationships: Xabi Alonso/Steven Gerrard
Series: football. — ideas. [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1733986
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	rip you apart and leave you shattered.

**rip you apart and leave you shattered.**

you want to rip at him, rip off the smirk, rip off the confidence and leave him bare for the world to see, for the world to see how he really is. but, you can't. it wouldn't be fair if you still had all the things that made you _you_ and he got stripped of all the things that made him _him_ , it's an unfair fight. your skin fizzles with hate, you can't but a finger on it but you know something is wrong.

someone like that, someone that perfect, can't be real. maybe, that's why every good opportunity passes you by, you never take it as it is, you always want to look under the skin to see the blood and muscle and bone, never accepting what has been presented.

so, you don't trust him and you don't know why, but you are the captain, so you stick your hand out and give a stiff smile, muttering something along the line off ' _welcome to the club_ ' and he can probably feel the prejudice radiate off you but still, he smiles and shakes your hand with a hard grip. you hate him immediately.

he's dressed well, with a buttoned-up shirt and a smile so dazzling that he has fooled half the team already, but you don't want to be his friend, you don't want to go out and have a pint with him while you tell him everything going wrong with your life, you don't want any of that. 

so, his smile doesn't work, if anything, it makes you scoff at him, hate him just that little bit more, that little bit harder.

you want a teammate, someone who reads you with a ball better than anyone else and isn't that what he was brought in for? to be your partner on the pitch? you can deal with him, if he's good, if he's really, really good, than you can put up with the spanish bastard, you can stand being with him if he proves he's worth it. maybe, he is. maybe, he isn't.

you give him a tour around the training grounds and tell him which person is which and he nods, politely. he hums at the right moments, talks when it's correct and says all that needs to be said in his limited english and you can slowly feel the hate boiling in your stomach. instead of lashing out, you give tight smiles and laugh at the right moments. he can act, but you can act better.

you both are too stubborn to let the act fall, to let the anger you both share to show, and maybe that's what makes you bound together, the mutual hatred that fills you both. you want to be drained, have all the hatred flow out and be peaceful but then he smiles and you feel more being added to the pool of hatred.

but his pool is deeper and you aren't afraid to swim.

•

he's good in all the ways you aren't. while you move around the pitch, filling in any space, any gap, he is standing his ground, never moving past his position and it shouldn't working with how you play but it does, wonderfully and better than either of you expected. 

he doesn't smile at you during training, he wears a hard face with little emotion and you are the same. you pass the ball to each other, and during a five v five, you get handed the ball with a perfect long kick by him and you almost walk over to thank him for having a long kick crafted by the gods, but you don't. instead you score against the other team and deal with carra moaning about it for the next few hours. 

he nods at you, ' _I understand your game_ '. he does, he gets you on the pitch, knows what you are about to do before you do it, the missing puzzle piece that you had stopped looking for and insisted that it looked better with a missing space but here he is, the piece, filling in the space. 

you don't understand his game yet, but you're getting the hang of it. he hates running, doesn't like tackling but he's good, fast when he needs to be, runs and jogs when told to and he's got a kick strong enough to take the net with it when he scores. so, you hold him high above the clouds and ask the gods if he is their missing angel. 

you're both sitting on the squad bus, carra had gone to talk to someone and left the seat beside you, and there he is, sitting down and putting pressure on your side, arm brushing yours, shoulder to yours. so you turn to him before he makes a pathetic excuse of a smile and whispers to you. 

"he stole my seat." he nods while speaking, playing around with his own thin fingers. "sorry."

you nod. "'s all right."

he falls asleep on your shoulder after an hour. you don't shrug him off even though you would with anyone else but he knows you better than anyone else, so you just shake him a little when you get back to the training grounds. he smiles up at you and says something that you don't catch, simply because you don't speak spanish.

he nods at you in training, during a drill and for the first time you nod back. 

•

he doesn't look like a footballer, he hardly looks like a man, let alone a footballer at the top division, you think to yourself bitterly. he's too pretty, too clean cut. you want to watch him fall and bleed, but you can't be the one to push him, that would make you look bad, a bad captain, a bad person. 

at some point you have to do stretching together and you catch at his leg and push it back, stretching the muscles there and he lays down on the ground and let's out a pained whine but not telling you to stop so you don't. you keep going until the coach says to swap legs, and you do the same. 

he's a lot gentler than you, with dimples and soft auburn hair and pretty, delicate hands. you almost want to see him get roughed up, teared at and ruined just because he can't stay like that, he can't be that flawless, it shouldn't be right, it can't be. 

but at the moment, you are watching him like you would a statue at a museum, with fascination but also looking for little cracks, hoping to see little mistakes. so far, there aren't any, the sculpture is perfect, no cracks on his fair skin and you almost want to take a sledgehammer and shatter him to pieces. 

but, you don't, instead you say he would look nicer with darker hair and watch as he fidgets when he looks in the mirror. it's a low blow, to start putting insecurities in his head but everyone should have one and his red hair is just the easier to pick out. you ignore the guilt you feel when he comes in the next day with brown hair, void of any red. 

he holds your hand turning training, some stupid game that the coaches thought could be good fun. it confirms what you thought, his hands are soft and dainty compared to your's, you almost squeeze just to see if his hand would break but instead you hold his hand as gently as you can, hoping you won't break him completely. 

•

you all go out to drink at some point. you had expected it, he's a handsome lad, no doubt, so you don't even blink when you see a man almost three times his age trying to chat him up. 

he's just smiling and looks a little bit ditsy, with slow eyes and slurring words, and you want to get him away from the man but you don't, you let him get talked away at. 

it only takes about half an hour before he comes stumbling at you and you catch him without complaining. 

"hi."

"hi." you say back and that gets him giggling. but he composes himself when he sees the man glaring at him, wanting him to hurry up. 

"I'm going to go with—" he pauses for a moment and you think he's lost his train of thought or he can't remember the english word but he turns to the man and says, "what's your name again?" 

the man mumbles a name that's almost as basic as yours. jeremy, or jason, it begins with a j but you're too drunk to remember it. 

"yeah, I'm going to go home with him." he nods again and then after giggling for a few minutes, he pulls you into a hug. "bye, stevie, see you tomorrow."

"see you, xabi."

he even blows you a kiss as the man pulls him away, and you nod and let him go off with the sketchy man because it's not your problem, he seemed happy enough to go and also you're too drunk to actually care. 

♡ 

the very next morning, your head is pounding and your front door is banging. you open it after downing a glass of water and there he is, xabi alonso, looking as rough as ever and he's giving you the best glare he can muster but he's about as intimidating as a puppy with his big eyes and cute dimples, so you make room for him and he comes in.

"why did you let me go home with him? john or whatever the fuck his name was." xabi asks and you just fill up the glass you already used with water and put it in front of him. he doesn't hesitate to swallow it down as though he was in a drinking contest.

"you wanted to go."

"i was drunk, I'd go home with anyone." he says, raising an eyebrow and you smile at the look he gives you, still too cute to be intimidating.

"so you're a whore when you're drunk?" you tease.

"yeah, I am." he spits back, but he's smiling and you laugh at his words.

"how'd you find me house?" you ask and he turns bright pink, a flush coming up and colouring his cheeks and ears in a type of cartoonish way.

"I asked jamie." he answers. "well, more like he mentioned it and I remembered it."

that sounds like jamie, he's always blabbering and giving out personal information without a second thought so you nod. he takes of his jacket and doesn't bother putting it on the coat rack, instead he leaves it on your coach and then sits down at the dinner table.

"make me breakfast?" he asks and you nod, feeling peckish yourself. he smiles and you smile back. you seem to smiling a lot more lately than you used to. 

he's got such a refined pallet, only eating food that tastes the best ( _you, personally, think it tastes the worst but maybe that's just your upbringing_ ) but right now, he's watching you fill a plate with chips and chicken nuggets and not complaining about it.

you don't mention the hickeys on his neck or the bruises on his wrists and cheek, instead you eat while talking about football and you definitely don't want to ask if he's okay, if everything is alright because how can he let himself be hurt that badly. but maybe that's what he's into, so you don't mention it.

you don't know that he desperately wants you to.

•

you think too much, it's always been your problem. you think too much, you focus on intricate details, that the whole picture fades by you and you're left oblivious, and maybe that means you don't think hard enough or maybe it means that you think too hard. he doesn't and you want to ask why, _how can you not? how can he not go over every decision in his head over and over and over? how can he be so honest? how can he just speak before thinking it over?_

he's carefree but maybe he isn't, and you want to know what makes him tick. he's always been proper and nice and he always smiles and kisses women on both cheeks and has just the right amount of grip to make a handshake comfortable. he knows when a hug should linger and when it should stop. he knows when to stay quiet and when to listen and when to speak and when to give advice. he knows when to kiss someone or when to move his head just the right way to deflect a kiss so they land a kiss on his cheek, and he knows what to say to make it not awkward. 

it makes you sick, watching him know everything, makes you want to rip at him. but, you also want to know how he knows, how he understand so much while saying so little. you never ask, he never tells. 

•

"I think I'm dropped." xabi says, the hotel room shuts behind him. he's standing in front of the television, obstructing your view of the shitty soap opera that you were watching. 

carra looks over at you from his bed and then says, "fine, I'll bite the bullet. why do you think you've been dropped?" 

xabi looks at him with a face that screams _'I can't believe you just asked me that'_ and you can't help but burst out laughing. xabi smiles before speaking. 

"rafa is going room to room and he looked at my room like seven times and I heard him say it to another coach, so I had to leave because if he can't find me, he can't drop me."

jamie this time is the one to laugh. "he's not going to let you out onto the pitch, alonso."

xabi shakes his head. "you don't know that, carra. he could. maybe."

he sounds so small and you want to invite him to lay next to you but then there is a thumping at your door and all three of you quiet down. 

"he's here." xabi says, it sounds so menacing for something that shouldn't be so dramatic that you let out a quick laugh, making the two men shush you. 

"I know your in there, xabi!" 

xabi starts shaking before finally getting up and going to the door. he starts speaking before rafa, "it's okay, just tell me, just be nice about it though, like don't be rude to me, like just say ' _you aren't playing_ '. you know, like don't drag it out."

"you're playing, alonso." rafa says with a smile and he laughs when xabi let's out a relieved sigh. 

you smile at xabi and he smiles at you.

•

he's quiet, and you want to unravel him, you want to know what he knows, think what he thinks, see what he sees. but, he can't really be that much more interesting than you. he looks cold, empty, and maybe you want to fill him.

you want him to remember you, to fill yourself with him so much that he's flooded with your name, and it's a selfish thought but you want him. you want to carve your name into his bones and it's an all consuming thought that isn't as scary as you thought it would be. 

there is bruising all over him and you can tell some of the marks he has are from teeth, and maybe you want to be the one to sink your teeth into him, to make him promise himself to you, to be claimed to you, but you don't dare touch him. you have enough self-control to stop yourself from breaking the sculpture. 

and although you know he's not your's, too much fire burning under your skin for him to be loved properly, you still feel that pang of jealousy, you still feel that urge to wrap your arms around him and pull him away from everyone else because he's your's, no one else's even if you both don't know it.

•

"I love you." you say it and it feels foreign in your mouth, like you aren't used to saying it, and you aren't, at least not to anyone that isn't close family and friends.

he smiles at you, but it's empty and not as warm as it usually is, "don't do that to yourself."

it cuts through you like a knife, you feel uncomfortable, and you want to itch away at your skin until it rips. instead, you nod and watch as he swallows another mouthful of cheap beer.

he never says it back, not until he's leaving and he says it with so much emotion that you grip onto him so tight you can almost feel the fabric of his jacket ripping.

he tastes like the breath mint he uses and like oranges and you've never even seen him eat them but apparently he does enough for his mouth to be stained with the flavor. 

"I'll call you, steven. you better pick up." he says and it's lost all his normal venom that he has when he's threatening you but now he's not, he's hoping. 

"of course I will. I'll be waiting for it, xabi." 

then he's gone. and it hurts more than you thought it would. you don't want to rip at him any more, you want to patch him up but he's gone now so you can't even do that. he's gone. 


End file.
